Her hand slipped. Hujaghur was stretched out on the side of the glass dome two hundred feet above the ground; slipping was not an option. She had paid that damn mage Malzire over the odds for the weirding to give her the lizard-like ability to grip onto smooth surfaces. It had got her this far, but if it wore off now, the job was finished. She flattened out her palm and pushed it further up the curving surface, pulling herself after it. There was grip, but only just.

It had been a routine climb up the tower for a thief of her experience; she had scaled more difficult escarpments bordering the steppe of her homeland. The iron claws she had strapped to her boots and calloused palms had helped her grip the carved lapis slabs that formed its curving walls. The great stained-glass dome that crowned it was another matter. Removing the claws and her boots, she wedged herself into the bronze trough that surrounded the edge of the dome and served to channel rainwater. Hujaghur opened the sheepskin-lined pouch where she kept the phial of powder that had cost her thirty gold crowns. Removing the stopper, she held it long enough for the air to mix with the sea-coloured powder and then, cupping it to her nose, inhaled the rapidly forming gas. There had been a moment of intense pain behind her eyes and then a fit of giggles before she had returned to her senses and watched the fine ridges begin covering her palms, fingers, and the soles of her feet. Placing her hand on the glass had brought a smile to her lips. It had held tightly to the surface. After tying her boots to her bag, she had inched her body slowly across the dome, not convinced that the leaded panes would take her weight.

Now, she was at the apex of the dome, and the lizard-like grip was clearly beginning to weaken. But she had reached her goal: the triangular panes that opened to vent the air inside the dome. And there, directly below her, on the floor of the dome, was the unconscious form of Druna Thral. Lying naked in a narcotic stupor amongst the silks and pillows of a sleeping platform, the slim form appeared almost dead, the usually swarthy skin unnaturally pale. Hujaghur had never seen this sorcerer but knew from descriptions that, despite his youthful look, he was unnaturally old. She also knew from her informer that Druna Thral slept the drugged sleep after he had performed his necromancies, a sleep he required to reinvigorate his body and mind due to the awful cost of his sorcery. Drugged he may be, but Hujaghur hadn’t survived this long by simply trusting. She slowly unrolled a dark thread from a reel, lowering it down towards the skull-like head with its long, dishevelled copper-coloured hair lying on a satin pillow. When she judged that the end of the thread was just above the pale, slack lips, she took another phial from her pouch and dripped a black ichor onto it so that it began to run towards the figure below. Distilled from the stamen of the purple lotus, it would bring a sleep of almost death-like quality. She watched as it slowly crept down the thread and prayed to the gods of her people that her grip on the glass would not fail. The black drops fell onto the open lips and trickled across pointed teeth. Druna Thral gave a small moan in his sleep and then was quiet.

Hujaghur wound back the thread and produced a thin, knotted rope, which she tied around the frame of the second vents that were not directly above Druna Thral. She lowered it carefully and then swung into space to descend the thirty feet to the polished marble floor. Next, find the ring, the object that she had been commissioned to procure. It had been described as twin serpents coiling together, one in amber and the other in jet. It didn’t take much searching. It was there, on the left index finger of the unconscious Druna Thral. Ah, joy… But that was why she was paid at a premium. She slipped her boots back on in case she needed to run and then knelt on the cushions beside the sorcerer. Carefully lifting his long-fingered hand, she gripped the large ring and gave an experimental tug. It slid easily off the finger as if it were an adult ring on a child. Her informant had said that the occult practices left Druna Thral a wasted shell. That was, she guessed, the problem with magic – it took just as much as it gave, and the cost looked terrifying. Plus, it was untrustworthy. She put the ring into her pouch with a shudder at the realism of those tiny snakes.

Back up on the dome, she pulled up the rope and prepared to slide carefully down to the trough. Was that a movement in her pouch, a sort of writhing? No, it couldn’t have been…